Of Lions and Serpents and Lavender Brown
by applestooapples
Summary: Things like this always happen to other people. You know. THEM. The unnamed masses. But then again, you never expect to see the one person you trust the most cheating on you in the Slytherin Common Room beneath the "subtly" placed mistletoe with a certain plucky, giggly, and just all around GIRLY Gryffindor who's just everything you're not. And you certainly never expected THIS.


**A/N: I used to write fanfiction under the account of iatethepoisonapple, or xXLiStLesSXx, but recent changes in my life have made it necessary to start anew…so that account is now inactive, though I can't find a way to delete it. I hope this is within the rules of the site, and if it isn't, please know that I mean no harm from it.**

**Other than that, enjoy the story!**

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**Of Lions and Serpents (and Lavender Brown)**

**Prologue:**

**Because Red and Green Don't **_**Actually**_** Go Together, Except When They Do.**

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It's always perplexed Hermione (and anything that perplexes Hermione Granger must be a very perplexing subject indeed) that, at every other time of the year, red and green stood for rivalry—for bravery and for cunning, for good and for bad—and yet, now, at what some might consider the most important holiday of the year, these two colors collide at almost every turn and are considered—here she always winces—jolly. It usually starts to bother her very early in the season—not because of her inherent dislike for all things Slytherin, but because of how terribly the two colors really do clash.

And it's funny, really, how lovely plucky little Ginny Weasley looks in the oversized, emerald green jumper with a giant 'H' stitched right in the middle. Green, after all, tends to suit most red-heads (except for Ron, who just looks awkward and, if she's being a bit mean, a bit constipated in his).

But for some strange, inconceivable reason, whenever Hermione happens to be walking through the hallways, the Great Hall, the Quidditch pitch, and, strangely enough, Myrtle's bathroom (as it had so been dubbed after various incidents during the Golden Trio's stay at Hogwarts), she finds herself fighting off a rather horrid headache by the time she reaches whatever class she's headed off to.

She really thinks they've gone overboard this year, but she doesn't have the heart to tell Luna, who's going about hanging mistletoe over every doorway, humming something about Nargles as she goes. Hermione can't help but wonder if the girl has an ulterior motive for planting said mistletoe—she knows firsthand that the girl is smarter than she looks. Or, rather, more intelligent than her spacey demeanor leads one to believe.

Either way, Hermione just can't stand the signature colors of Christmas. But they'd never made her physically ill until this, her eighth year (though she was nineteen—it had taken some time to rebuild the magnificent school after the war, but Hermione steadfastly refused to skip her final year of education over something as trivial as the entire school collapsing. Education is, after all, more powerful than all the wealth Malfoy's imprisoned father lined his pockets with), and in the middle of the Slytherin common room, no less.

It's Pansy who starts it all, of course.

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"Not even pulling that gigantic stick out of your arse for Christmas, Granger? For shame."

The overpowering scent of champagne (because Slytherins were too good for beer and Firewhiskey, of course) camouflaged Pansy's usually equally overpowering perfume as the girl leaned over Hermione, speaking directly into her ear. Ignoring the warm shiver that the slight brush of skin against skin incurred, Hermione grimaced and pushed away from the clearly sloshed Slytherin. She blamed it on her only real contact coming from Harry, her best friend, and Ron, who had been in her life so long before they became a couple that his touch struck no chords within her. She didn't have long to dwell on her thoughts, however, as Pansy took it upon herself to climb over the back of the sofa, practically draping herself over the Gryffindor.

"Go away, Parkinson," Hermione grumbled, not in any kind of mood to engage in one of Pansy's childish little games—at least, not when her head was liable to explode at any given moment. There was a small part of her, though, that seemed to…twist when she felt Pansy huffing against her side, tossing a heavy arm lazily over Hermione's slender shoulders.

"Whatever, Granger," Pansy slurred, somehow managing to sound patronizing despite being absolutely sloshed. It was quite a talent, actually, Hermione thought. "Just thought you might want to get a little wasted after seeing that." The Slytherin pointed towards the entrance of the Slytherin common room, directly at a sight that dispatched hundreds of emotions within Hermione's mind at once, all fighting for dominance, like an army that had been ordered to open fire.

Because there was Ron, her best friend, her _boyfriend_, one of the two people she would have trusted with her _life_, snogging the life right out of a nearly comatose Lavender Brown, who was clinging to him because, apparently, she was too drunk to stand on her own two legs. Above them hung another unmistakable holiday cliché in the form of a large fistful of mistletoe.

Bloody Luna and her bloody nargles.

"I...think he's try…tryin' to swallow her _face_," Pansy commented in a voice full of wonder, reminiscent to that of a five-year-old who just realized that her daddy could buy anything in the world with a little piece of paper. "I mean, like…like ser-seriously, look at his _tongue_, it's like he's trying to-to get to the bottom of a bloody ice _cream_ cone!"

The remark was little more than a fly buzzing through Hermione's airspace as she felt her world collapse around her. And oh—_god_, it really was. Because he wasn't just her boyfriend, he was her one constant—he was her _life_, as was Harry. And this couldn't be happening, because they'd been through so much together. He'd made her cry countless times, and she'd seen how it killed him every time. He'd saved her life and she'd saved his. They _belonged _to each other.

But now…suddenly it was as if it were all gone. As if they'd never known each other, only they had, and it was the memories that hurt the most.

"Being sloshed helps with…with that," Pansy stated in a factual tone, gesturing towards the room at large, almost smacking the frozen Gryffindor right across the face.

Hermione gave a small start, inhaling a sharp breath—she'd forgotten about the Slytherin. "I have no doubt that binge drinking helps you with your boy troubles, Parkinson," she replied in a biting, patronizing tone. It was completely unwarranted—Pansy hadn't really done anything wrong, she was just drunk and obnoxious in general—but of all the emotions warring deep inside of her, turning her inside out, exposing her fragile state to the world, rage seemed to be the safest. Lashing out was better than the alternative—Rita Skeeter would have a field day. _Heartbroken Heroine Drenches Drunken Enemy's Lap with Tears of a Fairytale Gone Wrong. _Oh yes, that would be lovely indeed.

Pansy actually looked wounded for a moment, before turning around and then facing Hermione again, having somehow procured a bottle of Firewhiskey out of thin air. As the Gryffindor was inspecting Pansy's robes for any evidence, the Slytherin uncorked the bottle and took a hearty swig. "C'mon Granger," she stated, jerking the brunette up and almost toppling over herself.

Hermione jerked back, causing Pansy to stumble and drape an arm over the Gryffindor's shoulders to maintain her balance. "Where do you think you're taking me, Parkinson? And, for that matter, what makes you think I'll go with you anyway?"

The Slytherin released a dramatic, exasperated groan. "Look, Granger, I'm a Slytherin, you're a Gryffindor, and it's a bloody party, in case you'd for-forgotten—it's practically a _law_ that we have to have steaming hot hate-sex, 'specially if your ugly as shite boyfriend—_ouch!" _Pansy glared at Hermione, who was returning the look with interest, before continuing, "'s nogging the air out of the queen of the bimbos' brain."

Hermione flushed a shade deeper than her crimson scarf, yanking away from the Slytherin so quickly that she almost fell over backwards, had a surprisingly coordinated Pansy not pulled her back towards her.

Suddenly enveloped within the warm, unfamiliar embrace, Hermione felt her walls crumbling down—felt her fingers aching to latch onto the taller girl's shoulders—and forced herself to pull out of the hold.

"What's _wrong _with you, Pansy?" she nearly squeaked, her hands still pressed firmly against the Slytherin's shoulders, despite the fact that Pansy was doing nothing but smirking down at her with those deep green eyes. "Why would you want to _sully _your pristine reputation with my muddy blood?" she added, admittedly sulking just a bit. Pansy would probably rather have Lavender too, if she wasn't preoccupied with dry-humping Hermione's boyfriend.

Hermione knew she was very close to breaking down at this point, and was trying desperately to keep the tears at bay as Pansy frowned down at her. Her hands were balled into fists at her side, her jaw tight from fighting back the breakdown. "Just fuck off, Parkinson. Leave me alone," she finally said, releasing the girl and slumping against the doorway Pansy had led her to, watching out of exhaustion rather than masochism as Ron and Lavender got dangerously close to breaking a dozen sanitary codes. Sighing, she was about to walk back to the Gryffindor common room, undoubtedly to spend the night alone and sobbing over a man who had made her cry more than anybody else combined, when she felt a hand clasp around her wrist, tugging her backwards.

Pansy was staring down at her with dark, lustful eyes, with just a hint of something more hiding underneath. "Just come on, Hermione," she mumbled, and, somehow, despite the chaos in the background, Hermione heard her perfectly clearly. Her mocha eyes shifted back towards Ron and Lavender for a moment before Pansy had her by her chin, forcing her to look at her. "Don't tell me you're going to let him think he's some sort of _player_," the Slytherin taunted. "I never took you for the type to sit and act stupid while your _ugly as shite _man goes out and frolics in the whore-house."

Hermione felt her blood begin to boil, and, for the first time, she realized that maybe Pansy wasn't as drunk as she'd originally let on.

The Slytherin smirked at the familiar reaction and lifted her free hand, dangling the bottle of Firewhiskey in Hermione's face, features infuriatingly smug, as if Hermione was some sort of dog that would do whatever she commanded.

And Hermione was going to let her have it-she really was. Nobody bosses Hermione Granger around. Especially not drunk, smug Slytherins, even if they _did_ have a rather shapely arse for their thin, yet surprisingly strong frame. Yeah. Nobody.

Except Luna had hung the bloody mistletoe, and now Lav-Lav was dangling like a hormonal ragdoll from her boyfriend's neck, and Hermione was too proud to be the one looking on, mourning after the loss of her love, like Sleeping Beauty. Or Cinderella. Or any other Disney princesses meant to be role models for young girls, really. And while these movies had led to Hermione's idealistic belief that everyone has a true love, she did not (nor did she ever) comb her hair with a fork, nor did she wear silly glass shoes that were too tight.

So, really, it was all Luna's fault, and Hermione couldn't possibly be blamed for her subsequent actions.


End file.
